Prisons
by Cyanide Lemons
Summary: The medic had spent most of his life imprisoned in some fashion.    As a boy it had been in his father's wealthy estate, surrounded by tutors and servants who would fearfully shy away from him in his father's absence. First in tf2 series.


**AN: So, a Medic fic. Not really plot, more just me rambling. Got some interesting background, and a little bit of gore, but not much else.**

**Not really sure what to categorise this as. Horror? Naw, not really.**

**Which class should I do next?**

**/**

The medic had spent most of his life imprisoned in some fashion.

As a boy it had been in his father's wealthy estate, surrounded by tutors and servants who would fearfully shy away from him in his father's absence. They were afraid of the petit, quiet boy who plucked butterfly wings off and drowned his sister's canary.

As a young man it had been at the university he had been forced to go to, surrounded by idiots and snobs that never understood the satisfaction of a dissection. They became so very nervous around him after the stray dogs started disappearing.

As an adult it had been the military camp he assisted in. He was usually overlooked when it came to promotions, but there was one man there who saw his brilliance. He wasn't affiliated with the camp, or the war, or even with the country. He was simply a stranger who pulled him aside one day and quietly showed him the wonders of a freshly skinned corpse.

There was never any real freedom in his life. Whether bound by duty or by steal walls, it didn't matter. He just kept exchanging on prison for another. And this was just another prison.

At first it had been terribly thrilling, being able to first handily experience, and administer, such horrors as decapitation and eviscerations. He was able to experience and understand the human body so much better now, after all the hours he spent tearing it up only to put it back together again. But soon that too became dull, and he started finding other ways to entertain himself.

There was an assortment of genetic materials to work with on the battle field itself, and it was no hard task to simply gather up various limbs and innards after the day's work. There was no shortage of test subjects either, and even if he had to "give" them back after the bell rang, during working time anything was game.

Even human experimentation.

He's own team he was more limited too. He had to work with them after all, and he wouldn't be surprised if he found himself dead in the middle of the night waiting for the respawn if he ever overstepped his bounds. It was so very hard to convince his team of any kind of "adjustments" that in the end he had to practice one of his most hated skills.

He had to charm his teammates to volunteering. For some it was easy, the Heavy after all was not very smart and had a high pain tolerance, the Engineer was easy to convince as long as the upgrades involved mechanics in some fashion, and the Scout was still naïve enough and vain enough to want "personal improvements".

For others it was a little more difficult. The Soldier was suspicious enough of the Medic that even with promises of being a better fighter he still resisted. The spy had seen what had happen to his double and simply avoided the Medic whenever not on the field and anything remotely close to switching body parts around had the Demoman ranting about conspiracy and monster men all night.

(He wasn't that far off.)

The Sniper already knew what he got up to in his free time and promptly refused, citing wanting to keep his limbs in the right order and not enjoying the taste of cyanide.

Schlappschwanz.

And who knew what the Pyro's reasons where. As the teams doctor the Medic was the only one to know what was under the suit, but even than he had never seen him without the mask. It was impossible to understand the man either way.

So days past and he was, if not happy than content. Life was fulfilling, if not rewarding, wreaking havoc as he had always dreamed, elbow deep in some poor kerl's chest well he performed brain surgery to a downed Soldier. At night's he secluded himself with some of he's country's finest medical journals and listened to classical music on the base's only radio.

And yet it was still a prison.

One would think that after all the years he had been caged he would have gotten used to it, but no animal can be completely tamed, and in the end he was nothing more than an animal.

He was not the only one, but he was perhaps the most calm in his dealings with the feelings of entrapment. At the end of a match you could usually find the two Scouts conversing through the fence, brass and cocky and the topic mostly about the female kind, as if those few moments could erase the pain of having your leg blown off, or the feeling of your intestines spewing out of your gut.

When not trying to kill each other or competing on assassinations, the Spy's where just as likely to share a cigarette and share strange coded speech.

The Pyro and Engineer had become good friends, and sometimes you could find a pair of them on the hill, setting up some sort of contraption (engineer) and gesturing madly (Pyro). They would eventually be joined by the other teams set, and you would have what looked like a very odd party.

And then there was the terrible threesome. The Soldier, the Demoman and the Heavy shared a bond on their veteran war statuses and all three could be found trading gruesome story's while trying to one up each other. This usually involved some sort of alcohol provided by the Demoman, and ended with the Heavy as the only one conscious.

And the Sniper, well he was just unsocial. And coming from a functioning sociopath that meant a lot. And yet even he was beginning to crack. Maybe he couldn't justify it as a "just a job" when the people he was killing never really died. Maybe he couldn't satisfy himself with the tightly restrained environments. The Medic didn't even try to understand the team's lone wolf.

They had all found their own little escapes.

But he knew from experience that little soon would not be enough. It never was, whether it be a "little" experimentation, "a little improvement", a "little escape". Eventually it would escalate, and these petty pleasures would end up being complete rebellion.

He was a patient man though, and he could wait for how long it took to nurture those unbalanced thoughts. When the storm finally breaks upon the base he knows he won't be the first to gather arms and blast his way out of the cage. He knows he won't be the first accused of treason. And yet he will probably be the first one to think of it.

He has become so accustomed to his prisons he was just fallowing the motions now.

And yet…

And yet he wonders what true freedom will feel like, when the Spy inadvertently destroys their records, when the Demoman blows up both bases, when the Sniper aims a gun at the Announcers head and the arterial spray crashes against the wall.

He wonders how it will end.

Will they be chased down and killed?

Will they replace them with some other, newer mercenaries?

Will real society destroy them when even death couldn't?

**/**

…**That's deep Medic, **_**deep**_**.**


End file.
